Sketched
by PitFTW
Summary: The story of a love between a Character and his Imagineer.


**Sketched**

**A/N: Written with no rhyme or reason.**

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He always began with the eyes; they were the best part of any drawing, and to be frank, it was the eyes that made the Character. No Imagineer would ever tell you that they simply drew the Character for the sake of drawing. No, they would say that they would breathe life, a beating heart, a wayward soul into this Character, and from it form a being that would rise above all and transform itself from a whimsical drawing into a vengeful, whirling god.

He was born from the eyes first, and then the mouth, before a fringe of hair was drawn in just above. The contours of his face, traced with care, bent and gasped with each stroke of the pen. From his face grew a gently sloping neck, two strong arms, a slim torso, a pair of strong legs. His mouth pouted, then grimaced, then smiled, then laughed. He was a prince, a god, a spirit, a knight. At one point, he was even a horse's assistant.

Sometimes he had freckles scattered across his cheeks and sometimes he had a sparrow perched on the tip of his nose. Sometimes, his fingers flexed and grasped a blade, while he rode upon his mighty steed, and other times, they held a bouquet of flowers as he knelt before a blank expanse. Sometimes, he would be drawn with the golden-haired Frenchman (idiot though he could cop a feel when the Imagineer wasn't looking, but the man was much smarter than that! It didn't take long for him to be moved to a new page, ha!) or he would be reading with the quiet Japanese man. Sometimes he would be battling with friends or speaking with foes, but most of the time, he was simply standing and smiling.

He visited hills and castles and forests and lakes. He scaled to the peak of the tallest mountain and dived into the depths of the deepest ocean. He saved princesses, defeated twin giants, and rescued the crown from the Forbidden City, all while running away from a vengeful mother and a wicked father. Story upon story trickled down to him like a waterfall, and every time, he would lap it all up, growing rich with every story told, but knowing that sooner or later, _that_ story would arrive, and he would truly come to life at last.

His name was Jonathan. Then William. Then George. Then Kevin. All of these (save, perhaps, the latter) were mighty names, the names that kings would wield. But was he a king? Yes and no. He was a king and a peasant and a singer and an explorer. He was everything and nothing at once. If one were to ever stop and ask this little sketch (oh, what a welcome miracle that would be!), he would always say the same thing: "I am but a sketch on a paper, a life yet to be given life, a tool in the hands of the Imagineer."

There was no color to his world, only white. White eyes, white hair, white hands, white feet. He lived in a white world, full of black lines, just barely getting by. It was a beautiful world, a vast world, but still a story in the making. It was exciting to know that he could very well soon become the next prince or hero, but at this moment, all he could think of was how blank his world truly was.

"Green," the Imagineer said one day, his million-sun grin lighting up his world. The sketch blinked and looked up at him, tilting his head in question as the man bustled about. For a moment, he considered sitting up and asking what the Imagineer was going on about this time, but it was not long until a pencil- a green one- was produced and another shade made.

And suddenly, his world was a whorl of color, of sights and sounds and everything in between. Here was the blue of the sky and the red of the roofs, the pink of the flowers and the gray of the stones. He opened his mouth to see his wet red tongue, parted pink lips to sing a song about greens. He turned to the sky and reached up, feeling the warmth of gold and yellow and orange all over his face. Was this life? Was this godhood?

The Imagineer always kept a reflective surface near him, in case there ever was a use. The sketch had never seen a use for it until now. The Imagineer was sketching again, strokes of pink and yellow and purple flowing from his hands as the Frenchman, too, came to life. And in that surface, he saw himself, in his pinks and greens and golds. He saw the curve of his smile, the wonder in his eye, and the dance in his step as he walked through the streets of his village- Nohansen, his mind supplied.

"You're finished, you're really finished," the Imagineer whispered, turning to regard him, smile ever-present on his face. He reached out and the sketch stilled, unable to do anything but stare back at the face he had come to know over all these years. This face, with eyes bluer than the sky shaded above him and a smile brighter than any gold of the sun, gleamed with unmatched glee. "You're all finished, but… you still need a name." and then, the Imagineer picked up his gold again.

"You're Arthur now," he said as he placed him down and drew in two lines- thick lines- just above his eyes. "Arthur Kirkland, who wakes up one day with no memory of who he is until he discovers that he is a prince of old. You search desperately for your happily ever after in a world that has long let go of them." the Imagineer smiled and lifted him up, observing him from every angle. "But with a Prussian you eventually come to see as a true friend, a Frenchman who you can never hate, a Spaniard that never stops smiling, and an American who eventually steals your heart, you discover that to make your happily ever after in this world, you have to start small."

Arthur. His name was Arthur. His name was Arthur and he wanted his happily ever after. Yes, yes, it all made sense now. This was his story. This was his world.

The Imagineer smiled and he could only smile back. What use would a Character have without an Imagineer behind him, pulling the strings? What would be the point of these retellings of whimsical tales of heroes and villains and knights and princesses be without all that the Imagineers poured into it?

To be a true Character, one must have many things: a strong heart, a powerful mind, an indomitable will, and of course, a loving Imagineer. But even then, it is not enough; the Character must love the Imagineer as much as the Imagineer loves the Character. If there is no love there, then the Imagineer would have failed the Character, and the Character would have failed the Imagineer. But this Imagineer loved Arthur. And Arthur loved his Imagineer.


End file.
